


Homecoming

by dreadpiratewatson



Series: Coming Home [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Captain John Watson, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, John Loves Sherlock, John comes home from the war, John in Afghanistan, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Pre-A Study in Pink, References to Addiction, References to Drugs, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Sherlock Loves John, soldier John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-16
Updated: 2015-04-16
Packaged: 2018-03-23 04:35:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3754777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreadpiratewatson/pseuds/dreadpiratewatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg Lestrade always knows when there's something wrong with Sherlock Holmes. When the detective stops talking, stops eating, doesn't come to crime scenes, and barely moves from the red chair in 221B, Greg starts to worry that he's using again, and this time, he's in too deep to be helped. That is, until a certain soldier shows up at a crime scene.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Homecoming

**Author's Note:**

> For those who are just now reading (or re-reading), I have FINALLY started working on a sequel to this. Well, actually, it's a prequel. Soooooooo, you guys will get to see the official meeting between the two boys!!! I'm not sure WHEN it will be up, but, hopefully soon!!

Greg Lestrade always knew when there was something wrong with Sherlock Holmes.

During the detective's drug days, there were days he would show up to crime scenes excited and energized, then other times, he'd come in after a bender and collapse all over the place and was so scrambled he could barely form a coherent sentence. It pained Lestrade so greatly to see the brilliant man so broken, so when he got sober, it was like a gift from God.

After he got clean, he looked ten years younger, he was able to speak without stuttering or slurring, and he looked _healthy._ The first time Lestrade saw Sherlock after treatment, he almost cried. He started coming to crime scenes and would dance around the body, throwing out deductions like a madman, and would solve a case within hours. It was amazing to watch.

So when Sherlock started coming to crime scenes looking like he hadn't slept in a week, Greg felt like he had been run over by a bus.

The first few times, it was barely noticeable, the bags under his eyes, the way he got less and less talkative, it was odd, but so was Sherlock, so Greg tried not to think too much of it. But, when the detective came into a crime scene and said absolutely nothing the whole time he was there, then simply left, it began to prey on Lestrade's mind. He still came when called, he responded to texts, but he wasn't... All there.

Then, he stopped responding.

When Sherlock didn't show up to a triple homicide case, Greg nearly lost his mind. He left just as soon as they were done and made his way to Baker St. He climbed the stairs, his heart pounding so loudly he could hear it echoing off of the walls, and pushed the door open with careful movements. He was almost afraid to look inside.

"Sherlock?" He called apprehensively. "You in, mate?"

No response.

Greg searched around the living room, and eventually found the detective sitting his chair by the fireplace, hands folded gently in front of his face in a prayer position, eyes glazed over and fixed on one spot on the floor. He made no movement when the Detective Inspector approached, just continued to sit there. He looked alright from where Greg was standing.

But then, he _really_ saw him.

Sherlock was deadly pale, which made the bags under his eyes darker still. His eyes were absolutely dead, vacant, like he was just the outer shell of a man and his soul had already made its' escape. His chest was rising and falling so lightly that it was barely visible. He looked like the plague, and even in his stillness, it was like he was screaming.

Greg panicked in a second and began shaking the man's shoulders in an attempt to get him out of his trance. He checked his eyes, looking for signs of pupil dilation, then ripped his hands from his face to check for needle marks. There were none, but the behavior itself was enough to terrify Lestrade. He wasn't about to let this happen again.

"Sherlock! Sherlock, you git, snap out of it!" Greg shouted in his face. His fingers were digging into the detective's shoulders so hard it was amazing the man didn't flinch. "Sherlock Holmes, we had a deal, remember? I will call your goddamn brother, now snap out of it!"

Only when he mentioned the elder Holmes did Sherlock finally come to. He blinked twice, clearing his eyes of the glassiness, and stared in an almost alarmed way up at Greg. His jaw dropped ever so slightly, but he did not pull away. "Lestrade." He greeted him flatly. "When did you get here?"

Greg tried to hide his relief, but it was a lost cause. "I texted you to tell you there was a triple homicide I wanted you to take a look at, but you didn't answer."

Sherlock started to get up. "Oh, how..."

"You look like _death,_ Sherlock!" The DI half-shouted as he scrutinized the detective's face. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "When was the last time you slept? Or ate? You look like you've been in a gutter!"

The detective blinked. "What day is it?"

"Tuesday, why?"

He blinked again, as if piecing things together. "What day did I see you last?"

"Last Friday, but..." Suddenly he made the connection and he wanted to reach out and punch the man. "Sherlock, are you using again?"

Sherlock scoffed. "Don't be daft."

Greg took a moment to take in everything he was hearing. He wanted to believe the man, he really did, but he looked like death. "You're sure?"

"Yes, of course, now have you got a case for me or not?"

The DI crossed his arms over his chest. "Well, if you had answered me eight hours ago there would be one." He looked the man over again, wishing that he could make deductions like he did, just to see if he was lying. Everything except for the lack of needle marks and dilated pupils was evidence of drug use, but he had no proof. "Sherlock, are you sure you're okay, you look terrible."

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows, like he had no clue what the Detective Inspector was talking about. "I'm... Fine."

Greg was unconvinced, but he said nothing. Pressing the matter would only enrage him and he would shut down, and then he would be less help than he already was. "Alright, I'm sorry for barging in, just... Take care of yourself, mate. Get some rest. I'll call you in tomorrow if you want. I've got a few cases to look at."

But Sherlock ignored him.

So, he left.

Greg did call him in the following day, but he didn't show up.

This down cycle went on for a month. Sherlock stopped talking, eating, it was terrifying. Greg spent more time checking up on him at Baker St. than he did actually doing his job, but he was worried sick. He set up a surprise drugs bust to make sure the man was clean, and he always was. There was nothing. It was a relief, but the fact that he never said anything about it was worrisome. While Scotland Yard was digging through the detective's flat, Sherlock just sat in his chair and let them. There were no snarky comments, no slamming Anderson's intelligence or Donovan's bitchy attitude, he was absolutely silent.

Then he disappeared for two weeks. Mrs. Hudson said he left one morning and never came home. Greg checked every drug house in the area, every alley, he sought out anyone who knew him well enough to give him an idea of where he was. But, of course, no one had seen him, so Lestrade decided to call in the big dog.

Mycroft Holmes was just as clever as Sherlock, but ten times more intimidating, even to Greg, but if anyone would have an idea to where the detective was, it was Mycroft. He called the elder Holmes for help, but was immediately reassured that 'Sherlock was fine and he would be back in London in a few days, but it was better if he didn't ask questions when he returned'. Greg asked if he was safe, and was tempted to ask if he was in rehab again, but when Mycroft said he was completing a mission abroad, Lestrade didn't question anything, although he was doubtful that Mycroft was speaking the truth.

However, Sherlock returned that weekend. Greg was already at 221B waiting for him when he arrived, but his presence was ignored. He tried to talk to the detective, but the man just curled up on the couch with his back to Greg. The Detective Inspector stayed until past midnight, watching Sherlock carefully. He never moved.

Two more weeks were by and by then, Sherlock had been silent for nearly two months. It was easily the most terrifying time in Greg Lestrade's life because he wasn't on drugs-Mycroft assured him many times-but he wasn't _there._ He didn't speak, he barely ate, he barely slept, he didn't move, he just sat in the living room in the reddish chair by the fireplace and stared at the floor. When Greg got a look at his eyes for the first time, he almost fell to his knees. Greg Lestrade had seen violent death, he had seen pain and rage and fear, but never in his life had he seen someone in so much _agony._ Especially not Sherlock Holmes. It was like someone had just ripped every bit of life out of him and kept him just a shell. Greg was tempted to call Mycroft again and demand that Sherlock get help because frankly, he was scared shitless for the man.

But then, he showed up at a crime scene.

Double homicide, found in a garbage compactor. When Sherlock showed up, Lestrade's heart dropped to his stomach and he had to restrain himself from throwing his arms around the skinny detective. He still looked awful and he still didn't speak, but he was there. He stayed all of twenty five minutes, searched the mutilated body, then promptly left. He texted his findings and the solution to the case to Lestrade after he left, and that alone was enough.

By the end of the week, he was returning to solving cases, and he even started talking. Not much, only a few mumbled deductions, but it helped. It meant he was getting better.

"Poison." Sherlock muttered as he examined the bodies at his feet.

Lestrade, who was crouching beside him, looked up, the sound of his voice sounding like an angel singing. "Poison?"

He nodded and lifted his hands to open the mouth of one of the bodies where the tongue was blistered and turning purple in some places. "From the pattern it looks like it was a breath strip that was soaked in poison. The initial target was Mr. Wheeler, since he obviously uses breath strips enough for someone to think about poisoning him with them. Mr. York just just collateral." His voice was flat and monotone, nothing like the indecent excitement he often had.

Greg examined the purple, blistering tongue. "Why kill them? What were they..."

"Hey Freak!" Sally called to him as she came around the corner. "There's someone here for you."

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. "If it's my brother, tell him to go away."

"We're a bit busy here, Donovan." Greg said, although in the back of his mind he wondered why Mycroft would come to a crime scene.

Sergeant Donovan shrugged. "I have no idea who he is, but he says it's important."

"Oh, for god's sake." The detective grumbled, getting to his feet. He began to walk toward the door, Greg and Sally trailing not too far behind him and they stepped out by the overpass. "What could be so important that I need..." Sherlock stopped mid-sentence as he approached the caution tape. Greg watched as his jaw fell open, and followed his gaze to an ominous looking black car that was pulled up just under the bridge.

Leaning casually up against the car, dressed in dark military camouflage and brandishing a walking cane was a short, but powerfully built man with sandy blonde hair that Greg had never seen before. His presence seemed to linger in the air, and most of the officers there were staring at him with caution. They were obviously intimidated. The soldier turned his head just slightly, and locked eyes with the detective, a small, proud smile spreading across his face.

"John." Sherlock choked out, then threw himself forward over the caution tape, running at full speed at the soldier. He threw his arms around his neck and buried his face in his shoulder. The soldier, apparently named John, was smiling and was tangling his hand in the detective's curly mop.

Sally and Greg watched with their jaws on the ground. "Who the hell is that?" Sally demanded.

The DI shrugged. "Not a clue." He stepped forward just as Sherlock pulled away from the soldier, still clinging to his uniform like a lifeline. He was crying heavily, something else no one expected, but is was out of joy.

"Sherlock, it's okay, it's okay, it's really me, I promise, I'm home." The soldier murmured, pulling the detective down again. Even the soldier seemed to be a bit tearful. "I'm home."

Greg cleared his throat and Sherlock pulled away, but not far out of the man's grip. His eyes were red and puffy from the tears, but he looked the happiest he had been in months. "Lestrade. I'm sorry, this is a bit..." He waved his words away and turned to the soldier, who had a tight grip on his waist. "This is my... Boyfriend, John Watson."

The Detective Inspector's jaw dropped to the floor again. "Boyfriend?!" His voice came out as a nervous squeak.

The soldier smiled and held his free hand out to Greg. "You must be Greg Lestrade, he's told me all about you." He said warmly.

"He has?"

John nodded. "Oh, yeah. Thank you, by the way, for keeping him preoccupied. He's a pain in the ass when he's bored." He teased the detective, nudging him with his shoulder.

Greg was at a loss for words. "Uh... Sorry, I've uh... He's never mentioned a boyfriend."

"No, not once." Sally agreed, sounding skeptical. "What, did he pay you?"

John raised an eyebrow. "Um... No." It sounded more like a question than an actual response.

Sherlock glared at the sergeant. "John's an army doctor. He's been abroad for the last three years. Even you could figure that out, Sally, even with a simple mind like yours." His words were like liquid poison as they dripped down to the ground bellow.

"Donovan, get back to the scene." Lestrade snapped, sending the woman skittering away.

John let out a laugh and wrapped his arm tightly around the younger man's waist. "You're so cute when you're angry." He teased, making Sherlock blush and look down on the ground.

Lestrade's eyes nearly bugged out of his head, but he quickly hid it, out of respect for the war hero boyfriend. "So... You were in Afghanistan for three years?"

"Yeah. It's not as terrific as you think, it's pretty hot. And dry. And loud."

"How long are you home for?"

John smiled happily and turned to Sherlock, who was still clinging to his uniform. "Forever. I'm home for good this time."

Tears returned to Sherlock's eyes. "You've been discharged." He guessed, his eyes suddenly clouding over, the same fear and pain that Lestrade had watched him suffer through for three months returning. "You were missing for three months, John, what-"

"Sherlock, don't."

"I went to find you, I flew out there with Mycroft's men to find you but I never-"

"Sherlock, stop it." John's military voice came through quite a lot, and out of instinct, he reached out and grabbed the detective by the coat, pulling him in close to him again.

Greg, who was still confused by what was happening, could see that Sherlock was tremblingly pretty badly against the soldier's grip, and he tried to piece the puzzle together. _You were missing for three months, John._ His eyes went wide. "You were missing in action." _No wonder Sherlock was a mess._

John nodded as he released the younger mind. "We got ambushed." He said quietly, his face expressionless. "I'm not just a doctor, I'm a Captain as well. They realized that I was in charge, shot me in the shoulder, and managed to take me away. Me and a few other men were stuck in a remote prison for three months. I'll spare you the grim details, but they only found us a few days ago. I was honorably discharged, I called his brother, and we thought it would be a wonderful surprise for him if I came to visit him here. So..." He curled his fingers around Sherlock's and pulled him close again. "I'm home. I'm home for good this time. I'm not going back."

The detective, while tearful and shaking so badly he could barely stand up on his own, tried to wipe the tears away and buried his head in John's shoulder. "I thought you were dead. They told me you were dead, John, they said that there was no chance that you could have survived." He rasped. His breath hitched and a sob ripped from his chest, and he wrapped his arms around the soldier's torso, like he would disappear if he let go.

"I know, I know, I'm so sorry, love." John whispered, pulling him close again. "But I'm here now, I'm here for good. I'm not going anywhere." He pulled away, and pressed a kiss to Sherlock's forehead. "And, because I've been such an awful boyfriend, and because I want to prove to you that I'm home for good, I want to do something that I've been thinking about since they threw me in that damn cell." He said, his voice a bit choked. "I've been away for three years. I've been shot, beaten, thrown in a dark hole for an extended period of time, burned, and all other terrible fucking things you could think of, and through all of it, I always thought about you. I dreamed about coming home to you, and now that I am, I think it's time." He sent a smile to Greg, then-with great struggle, due to the limp-lowered himself down on one knee.

"John?" Sherlock gasped, his eyes going wide.

Greg's heart skipped at least four beats. His mouth dropped open, and for a moment, he considered taking John Watson's cane and using it to keep himself up.

The soldier bit at his lip, his eyes gleaming with tears. "I know that this is a really inappropriate time for a proposal, since we're at a crime scene, but... Sherlock Holmes, will you-"

"Yes." Sherlock squeaked, not even allowing him to finish the sentence before leaning down to crush his lips to John's again.

The soldier got to his feet and held the younger man close as he kissed him and held him like he were the most beautiful thing in the world to him. Sherlock was still buried in his good shoulder, and when he looked up finally, he had the biggest grin on his face, he looked like a child. "Lestrade, since John is a doctor, an army doctor at that, he would have a great opinion, I'm taking him to see the bodies."

"Sherlock, this is a close scene." John chided him gently. "From what you've said, he's breaking rules letting you in here, I can't just-"

"Of course." Lestrade interrupted, earning a beaming smile from Sherlock and stunned look from John. The DI shrugged. "You've got more authority than any of us, Dr. Watson."

The detective began to tug at the sleeve of John's army fatigues and before he knew it, the newly engaged couple was kneeling down in front of the body while Sherlock was over-zealously firing off deductions while John stared up at him with a smile that was so devoted and so loving and proud that Greg actually had to look away because he felt he was intruding on something too precious for him to see. He watched from one afar while the two men talked, and just as soon as they showed up, they were already running down the street while John shouted 'nice to meet you, Greg!' though the tunnels before disappearing behind the walls of cement and leaving the Detective Inspector flustered and with a strange sense of pride.

Sally made her way back up to him once they were gone, and by that time, she had gone nearly dead white. She looked over her shoulder to make sure they were gone before shaking her head. "I... Don't know what to think of that."

Greg snapped out of his daze and turned to face her. "Think of what?"

She shrugged. "Freak just got engaged. To think that someone actually likes him enough to want to be with him... I just don't know what to think."

"You don't have to think anything." He snapped, a certain anger brewing under his skin. "Let them alone." And with that, he stalked off back toward his squad car and waited for Sherlock to text him with his findings.

As he sat in the front seat to get out of the sudden drizzle of rain, he thought back to the last three months of Sherlock's personal hell, and realized he couldn't imagine what the detective would have done had John never come home. So many danger nights in a row, and that was when they were still uncertain if John was actually alive or not. But now, he was alive and they were solving a case together and they were engaged-God, how weird that felt to say, Sherlock bloody Holmes was engaged-and most of all, they were happy. Sherlock was happy. And... In the end, the idea made Greg happy too.

Four years ago, Greg Lestrade watched Sherlock Holmes destroy himself with the drugs he shot up with night after night.

Today he watched him get engaged to a man he loved more than the morning aubade.


End file.
